


like father, like son

by cloverblooms



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pensieves (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Romance, Slow Burn, St Mungo's Hospital, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizengamot (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverblooms/pseuds/cloverblooms
Summary: “Good, evil, welcomed, exiled, nature, nurture. Our actions and the consequences of them are not black or white, either or neither, but rather, lay on continuum of possibilities.”If your grandfather had not done what he’d done, you would be his and his entirely – no questions or apprehensions.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Reader, Lucius Malfoy/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. bloodlines

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be set between Lucius's Hogwarts days leading up to the first Wizarding War. I wish we could've learned more about him and his upbringing. My image of him as a young man is that he'd still hold strong blood supremacist views, but be less brash about them compared to Draco. Where Draco is loudly stating his disdain, Lucius waxes political at dinner with his mates in the Great Hall. Lucius comes off as a terrifying father, but I imagine Abraxas to be much worse.

It was a lovely spring day, slightly overcast with the occasional glimmer of sun peeking through the clouds. You were perched on a high ledge, cozying up against a grand stone pillar that overlooked the sprawling fields. Eyes closed, you ushered in the last moments of your school days, before that innocence would burn out into an unknown adulthood. A light breeze billowed your robes and trickled over your skin. You were happy; the taste of freedom lingered like a tease on your tongue.

You drew in a sharp breath when you heard a sudden commotion below you. Unhappily jolted out of your peace, you made a turn and quickly descended the stone steps. You drew close to a group of students gathered in the courtyard. In unmistakable green and silver ties, a group of Slytherin students congregated to watch a young boy dangling from a tree. His tattered robes hanging precariously on a sharp branch was the only thing keeping his face from meeting the ground. His glasses were smashed beyond repair, with jagged pieces of lenses wedged in the grass. His books, ink pots, and quills had spilled out of his bag and onto the grass below him. Blotted black grass led you to look upwards again, this time taking notice of the boy’s cherubic ink-strewn face.

The chants of _mudblood_ progressively quieted down when one by one, they noticed who was behind them.

Your badge – that you wore with upmost pride – fluttered in the breeze.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

You released the young boy with a quick flick of your wand, letting him down gently to the grass. This poor boy, who couldn’t be older than this second year, was the fourth student this week to be subject to deplorable bullying. You bent over to pick up his broken supplies, mended his glasses with a spell and gingerly placed them back on his head.

“You can see Madame Toussaint in the infirmary if you feel unwell,” you whispered, keeping his gaze on you. Your gentle smile reassured him he would be okay. He nodded, muttering a quick word of appreciation before scurrying off with his bag.

You turned back to the crowd.

“Twenty points from Slytherin.”

The crowd let out a roar of disagreement but you continued to glance at them.

“If I see this behaviour _again_ ,” with a sharp emphasis on the word ‘again’ because apparently, your warnings kept falling on deaf ears, “I _will_ make a case to Headmaster Dippet to have you disqualified from the Quidditch Cup. Clearly, the lot of you can’t behave yourselves on the ground, nevertheless in the air.”

Knowing how harshly the Headmaster would come down on them if he heard, no one dared complain. Instead, they reluctantly began to disperse for class, but left no impression they’d stop harassing anyone who they deemed impure. Unworthy of being in this world. Of receiving a fair education. Of receiving equal rights. Frankly, you were exhausted from finding muggle-born students turned into the subject of humiliation, whether it be dangling from trees or being hexed in the hallways.

You smoothed out your robes from the kerfuffle. So much for a perfect, halcyon spring day.

Now in your seventh and final year, you had grown accustomed to this divide. No, you still found it horribly unjust but you had become frighteningly placid. The pain from which you learned in a cruel manner in your first years here began to blot and dissipate like watered down paint on a canvas. How could you forget how they used to sneer at you in the hallways, asking you how your summers with your _mudblood_ grandmother were. Or how you could live with yourself knowing your grandfather was a blood traitor.

Being so young, you sought solace in your grandfather’s arms. 

_“Pain,” your grandfather had said, stroking your hair and dabbing your eyes with his handkerchief . It was your first Christmas break back from school. But what should've been a joyous occasion quickly turned into incoherent tears the entire trip back to your grandmother’s. “We can bury it deep, but we can never truly forget the hurt.”_

_You never got a clear answer from your parents, who worked in foreign affairs and were oftentimes worlds away. So, every chance you had, you wanted to know: what had the nicest man in your life done to deserve such a slur?_

_“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “If you love me for who I am, then does it matter what your classmates say?”_

_You sniffled and shook your head no._

_“Now, let’s go downstairs, my dear. Are those scones I smell in the kitchen?"_

_And before you knew it, all your tears and frustration sunk away as you watched your grandfather purposefully dab clotted cream on his face. He smeared jam on yours which only made you giggle. Then he picked you up and swept you into the backyard where he chased the hours away in the snow until you were called in for dinner._

Quelling the hurt, you redirected your anger to your studies. It worked brilliantly, because barreling to the top of your class and being appointed prefect in your fifth year greatly decreased the jeers. Being appointed Head Girl stopped it completely.

But your hunger for the truth would not be satisfied at that beautiful and succinct, yet, such an unfulfilling answer. Your grandfather waxed poetic, carefully layering words to conceal the truth. He’d tell you everything when you were older, he promised, you'd understand then. But he passed away two years ago and left in his wake, an incomplete story and legacy. Last summer, you stumbled upon fragmented answers, but like a jigsaw puzzle missing pieces, you didn’t know what to make of them. You needed more clues, more time and something to hold them together.

There was one person you thought to ask, but pride and an intact conscious kept you from it.

“Malfoy,” your affect was flat, but your undertones biting. The tall blond male drew closer. You figured he’d been watching the courtyard spectacle from a pleasurable viewing distance – close enough to enjoy, but not close enough for the need to reprimand.

Lucius himself never engaged in physically bullying students but he was perfectly nonchalant in letting it happen. The silent instigator. His own _prefect_ duties be damned. From a bystander’s perspective, he seemed rather un-opinionated, even _charming_. That’s where intelligence and class would get you. But his conversations with his friends, the infuriating remarks and prejudice he had against muggle-born students coupled with his unsavoury family history stated otherwise. His whole bloodline was implicated in pureblood supremacy, and dare think you, genocide. By association, so was he – if not now, eventually.

“Only twenty points?” He smirked. “You’re getting rather complacent, (L/N).”

He was amused to find not a trace of annoyance or anger in your eyes, but a gaze that lingered on him a smidge too long. The courtyard was now empty, the broken pots and quills beside you being the only indicator of other bodies being here. The clouds once again began to shield the sun as a strong current swept over you. You watched the last of the sun dance in Lucius’s blue eyes, irises saturated with rich watery shades and flickers of light that would only coax questions if you let yourself stare too long.

“I’ll see you in potions,” you spoke, mustering as much amicability as your heart would allow.

Pulling your gaze from Lucius, you looked onwards to the castle. 

“Do make sure your attention is on Slughorn and not me, (L/N),” he said mockingly as you crossed his path. “You’ll need it.”


	2. invisible string

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You unfurl old secrets in your grandfather's attic.

You never believed in fate, not in the concept that your soul was intertwined with just one person or destiny.

One summer, hairline cracks in your entire belief system began to form.

* * *

It was the August before your last year at Hogwarts when your grandmother invited you to her abode in the countryside. You hastily accepted the invitation, fully knowing how lonely she must've been since your grandfather’s passing over a year ago. The once bustling and loving home now gave an aura of solitude; long gone were the tender touches in the kitchen and the summer night strolls that seemed to last a lifetime. Your grandmother, in perfectly good health and in great defiance of her age, tended vigorously to her blooming gardens and focussed on quilting to pass the time.

You went by train, keeping cool in your empty compartment with the gentle wind flowing through the open window. The convenience of travelling by fireplace paled in comparison to the lush country landscape that rolled outside. You must’ve fallen asleep under the summer heat because it didn’t seem to take long to arrive. When you did, your grandmother greeted you with a cup of tea and plate of fruit tarts. Under the welcome shade of the backyard gazebo, she showered you with nothing but compliments when she heard you were appointed Head Girl. She chattered excitedly and asked about your plans after graduation. When you shyly divulged, she simply put her hand on yours, gave it a tender squeeze, and assured you that your grandfather would be so proud of you. You smiled, always feeling comforted by her wisdom and loving words.

After a long conversation, you offered to help tidy the attic where your grandfather’s items were stored. Clearly, she had refrained from touching his old possessions, likely out of pent-up grief and a smidgeon of guilt. The only argument you could recall them having was over his refusal to rid of anything. She had a point; you never saw him nearly enough in the attic for it to be of any use. The argument was dropped shortly afterwards, and your grandfather maintained all his possessions up until his passing.

You helped her take the teacups and plates inside to the kitchen. While she cleaned, you pulled down the rickety ladder and began to climb. The dark space was a mess when you poked your head through. You coughed at the layers of dust that rose when you stepped on the floor and ducked spun cobwebs that draped from the slanted ceilings. Cornered by old furniture and faced with chest after chest of old artifacts, letters, newspapers, books and quills, you could barely take two steps without bumping into something. You figured you’d start clearing out the letters first – those seemed easiest. You piled up a bustling stack of parchment on a spare table, but the thin twill rope, showing great decay from age, snapped. Rolled parchment spilled everywhere.

You crouched down to the floor to retrieve the runaways that had disappeared under the tables and the cabinet. Your arm could barely fit under the cabinet due to its meager height – some mere centimetres – off the floor. With persistent fishing, your outstretched fingers eventually got hold of it. Through the dim light, you could see this one was different. You squinted as your fingers ran over a textured black and green crest. _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ , it read. Was this –? No, you shouldn’t pry and especially not from a dead relative. This letter wasn’t addressed to you, one voice said. But it must’ve been kept for a reason, another countered. And so, curiosity quickly won over formalities: what was your grandfather doing, writing to the _Malfoys_? The gentlest soul you knew engaging with some of the worst?

Without thinking, you pried the old parchment apart. The edges were frayed, the thin paper withering, and the ink faint and bleeding. 

> _Optio,_
> 
> _Cecilia and I are in unanimous agreement. As expected from my friend and ally, a brilliant idea._
> 
> _Let us see that the purity of our bloodlines shall remain pure forevermore._
> 
> _Yours in gratitude,_
> 
> _Cephus_

Your eyebrows furrowed as you read the letter over and over, as if the words would suddenly make sense the fourth time through. You wanted nothing more than an explanation for this unfathomable relationship. Cephus, you deduced, must’ve been a Malfoy. He clearly passed down his ideologies well, you thought as your mind flittered to Lucius’s many looks of contempt for blood traitors and muggle-born students, the memories scattered through the six years you'd known him at school.

But what had prompted his agreement? What had your grandfather, described as a friend and ally of a Malfoy, written?

You ransacked the other piles immediately afterwards, looking for parchment embroidered with the same crest. To your disappointment, the remaining correspondences offered nothing besides the nostalgic glory of their Quidditch days and the lavish summers the two men were enjoying in their adulthood.

You slipped the letter in your pocket, guilt consuming you for nicking your grandfather’s property. But you would eventually return it when you found an explanation. With school starting in a week, you figured you’d just head to the library and find your answers there. Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard your grandmother call from downstairs, asking if you were alright. Remembering the task at hand, you returned to tidying the rest of the attic until you were certain she could navigate it without tumbling over.

You spent the night in your old room on your bed pressed against the window. Sleepless from your findings, you tossed and turned, occasionally rotating the letter under the moonlight that spilled in from the windows in hopes its wise glow would turn up answers.

Your grandmother excused herself after breakfast the next morning for a trip to town with Mrs. Chesterfield. Mrs. Chesterfield was a kind old lady who used to take care of you when you were little. They’d gone out for quilting supplies or something; you weren’t fully listening. You took full advantage of her absence to turn paintings, sweep windowsills, rummage couch seats, sift pages of old books and photo albums, even pushing furniture from the wall in case forgotten letters had fallen through the cracks. Much to your frustration, the house was as neat and tidy as ever.

As the sun began to set the next evening, your bid your farewells at her fireplace. She embraced you for what might’ve been minutes, and you could only hope she didn’t feel the letter tucked in your pocket. Should you ask—? No, you chided yourself. Perhaps it was an awful memory and your prodding would only break her fragile heart even more. Maybe you would ask when you returned for Christmas. So, for both your sakes, you kept quiet and vanished in a flurry of green flames.

* * *

But you never forgot about the letter, especially not when it was safely stowed in your carry-on on Platform 9 ¾. Standing next to the Head Boy, you instructed a group of prefects of where they were to patrol on the train. It was nice having a sense of duty again, a sense of being and belonging after a carefree summer. As the Head Boy began to instruct, your glance was slowly stolen by what you saw in your peripheral.

Looking to your left, past the layers of passengers and teary parents, was dangerously glacial, like a bitter draft of air coursing through the platform. Your eyes were first drawn to the taller figure, whose brutal features almost made his son’s look tender in comparison. Almost the spitting image alongside his father stood Lucius Malfoy. Both looked particularly dapper amongst the casual crowd, donning prim black topcoats over their suits. Much like his father, Lucius inherited the same prominent cheekbones, the same jawline, the same calculating blue eyes, and the same pretentious snarl, as if being in a communal place like King’s Cross was offensive to their name.

But in their similarities, lay differences too. His father’s face appeared gaunter and sterner and not just due to age, but like he’d weathered unimaginable harshness in his lifetime. His cheekbones jutted out more and were more angular in nature. His hair was pulled back tighter, was thinner and glowed white under the morning light. He also took to a slightly more elegant peak lapel in comparison to Lucius’s notch lapel. He also fancied himself a golden pocket watch that draped across his pinstripe suit, the chains of it gleaming as he walked. However, the most striking difference was the deep scowl entrenched on his lips, the surely permanent lines marring what could’ve otherwise been a decent and honest face.

You could recall his name – Abraxas. You’d only ever seen him on the school grounds with Headmaster Dippet, or strutting the halls with the other eleven governors before a board meeting.

“Ready to go?”

The Head Boy gave your shoulder a light touch, bringing you back to reality. It was then you noticed all the prefects had already gone off to their assigned patrol stations.

“Of course,” you responded with a smile. “Shall we?”

Before you boarded the train yourself, you stole another glance back. Lucius's father had already departed, and Lucius was flanked by other prefects and the Head Boy and Head Girl of his own house. The letter in your carry-on felt heavier than ever as you vowed to find your answers by the end of the year. 


	3. pipedreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your perfect plans are thwarted by Lucius and his friends.

All the time you thought you had to peruse the shelves in the library turned out to be nothing more than a pipedream. Being Head Girl meant being expected to be available at all hours of the day: from early mornings, when barely a soul had stirred, to pitch black midnights, stifling yawns and tending to disorderly conduct in the hallways. Between your duties and time dedicated to studying for your year-end examinations, you barely had time to read anything other than your course textbooks. And with all the other students gathered here in the library, what would someone think if you were caught reading up on the Scared Thirty-Two? What if you were particularly ill-fated one day and were spotted tracing the Malfoy bloodline? What if Lucius Malfoy himself, who often frequented the library with his two best mates, was the one who spotted you? Would all the taunts and remarks come back to haunt you, and even worse than they did in the past?

The perfect opportunity to browse uninterrupted landed on a quiet Friday evening. It was two weeks before the Christmas break, the first snowfall of the season, and the day before the first Hogsmeade trip of the year – a trifecta for a deserted library. You sauntered in from the cold, the warm glow of the library quickly replacing the blinding white snow that had coated the school grounds. Ensuring no one was around you, you made your way to the reference section. There, the directory was in plain sight, so prime for picking and ever-so tempting with its unique spiral binding. It was quiet, and with one last look-around, you were certain you were alone. Getting on your tip-toes, you reached out for it.

“Sneaking around?” called out a voice from behind you. “Surely, that merits some deductions from your own house.”

You turned your head and saw Lucius Malfoy leaning on the bookshelf at the end of the aisle, hands in his pockets. He boasted a smug expression, as if he prided himself upon catching you red-handed. The candlelight that seeped in from behind him pronounced every fine thread of the cashmere turtleneck, a deep shade of green, that he wore under a black blazer. You would've admitted he looked rather elegant had it not been for your history with him.

“Reading,” you corrected, fingertip begrudgingly leaving a coil of the directory in favour of a neighbouring book. You barely had time to register the title before Lucius’s attentive eyes caught it first.

“War crimes?” He asked in amusement. “Doesn’t quite make for pleasant Christmas reading, does it?”

Every sentence he uttered to you was layered with the intention of wounding, whether it be a jab at your proclivity for punishing his housemates or your _impure_ lineage. You’d learned not to play nice with him, refused to even indulge in being passive for his enjoyment.

“Just trying to understand that unique mindset of yours, Malfoy,” you retorted plainly with a small smile, fully knowing well you were crossing some line. 

“Clever remarks don’t make for a hobby,” Lucius responded, though thoroughly amused by that quick wit of yours. “It’d serve you well to spend some time out of here.”

He knew that irked you, his belief of your nose always being in a book when you weren’t busy upholding your other responsibilities. You know he’d seen you with friends, sipping Butterbeer at the pub every Hogsmeade weekend. You know he’d seen you in the Quidditch stands when your house played, and was fully aware that you always joined in on the festivities afterwards.

“Out I go then,” you tucked the book under arm, “excuse me, please.”

You brushed past him without a word, a copy of _Wizarding War Crimes of the 17 th Century _securely under your arm. You walked past his two friends, Dawson and Woodsworth, who were seated at a long table by the stained-glass windows, busy chatting with some girls in their year. You approached the counter and handed the book over to the librarian, still fully irritated with Lucius’s interruption. You were so close – how had he even seen you?

“Two weeks,” she said, pushing the thick book back to you.

You returned the book the next day, having no intention of reading something you chose only to elude suspicion.

* * *

After the incident in the library, you decided that vigilance was key. The little time you did have to yourself was better occupied by scheming how you were going borrow the directory without being seen, especially when Lucius Malfoy was as stealthy as he was. You took advantage of a Slytherin and Ravenclaw Quidditch match, fully knowing Lucius and his friends would be metres up in the air engaged in gameplay. The pounding rain that hammered down that March day was a godsend; it not only obfuscated the spectators’ vision but made it so they were more concerned about staying dry than anything else. You excused yourself as the game reached its crescendo, muttering something about drenched robes. You may as well have never left the stands because the pounding of your heart was all you heard when you ran out of the library, the directory tucked under your perfectly dry robes, celebrating your own little victory.

Later that evening when your schoolwork was done and all the students were in bed, you cracked the directory open for the first time. It wasn’t detailed, but painted a rich vision of ancestry. Your eyes followed the lineages, in the shape of trees, as you went back centuries in time. You read about existing pureblood families: the Blacks, Dawsons, Lestranges, Malfoys, Sewlyns, Weasleys, Woodsworths, just to name a few. But more encapsulating were the pureblood families who ceased to exist: the Crabbes, Evergreens, Gaunts, Knightons, Worthingtons, Yarburys, and a few others in the past century. Suddenly, the thrilling history pivoted, taking a dark turn as you delved into the reasons, reasons that explained why they were removed from the directory. _Pruning_ the bloodline was what many families called it, the vernacular blunting the atrocity of the action. You could prune by disowning family members, quick and dirty. But in the brutal history of upholding purity, murder, though frowned upon and uncommon in the present day and age, was also a method of pruning. Sometimes, it'd go too far, the tree carved too thin, resulting in the end of a bloodline.

In respects for living family members, no such mention of pruning was mentioned in the recent century. But as you shut the spiral bound book shut, the idea was cemented in your head: purity eclipsed love.

* * *

Gone was the cold March rain in favour of a warm spring. It was as if Hogwarts was shrouded in a sea of green overnight, with the slanted landscape of the castle grounds set ablaze in emerald. Willow trees found life again, blooming fresh leaves that floated across the courtyard. The perfume of roses lingered sweetly in the air, perfectly complimenting the earthy tones from the freshwater lake. It truly was a shame that no one was around to care for it. It was the week before the N.E.W.T-level exams, meaning another gruelling week in the library. The careless chatter in the Great Hall was gone, and the air was instead thick with tension. At the very least, the bullying had greatly quieted down from this reborn appreciation for the books. You were relieved not to have to deal with anymore incidents since the one in the courtyard.

You would’ve been in the library too had you not had an appointment with Professor Slughorn. He was your undoubtedly favourite professor. Your admiration for his teachings knew no bounds, and you imagined he reciprocated the same.

“I would like nothing more,” you said quietly in his office, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You bit your lip, anticipation heavy at his next words. “Do you reckon I stand a chance?”

“Yes, yes – my girl – if being an Auror is what you wish,” Slughorn said, flicking through your prior assessments in the empty classroom. He took a bite of his crystallized pineapple and wiped the spare specks of sugar on his handkerchief.

“Well, I suppose I could drop a name or two to my old friends next weekend,” he said casually. “They’re quite interested in my little group of students, it seems.”

Your heart bursted at its seams at the thought of compliments from Professor _Slughorn_. If he thought you had a chance, surely you did. Seven years of hard work had undoubtedly paid off and all the golden strings of all his golden connections could make all the difference, be the deciding factor. All you had to do was obtain at least five E’s and let fate take it from there.

“Thank you, Professor Slughorn,” you said as you walked to the door. You eyed his favourite treat on the table. “And enjoy.”

You departed Slughorn’s office and began to walk to the library, ready to spend a few hours buried in your books before dinner. Suddenly, you heard someone call out into the empty hallway.

“Wait up!”

You turned around. A familiar male named Dawson was running towards you, his hand outstretched. Dawson who you thought an equally awful person to Lucius, was a loyal henchman to his divisive ministrations. His short, stocky build was the perfect match to not only being a brutal Slytherin beater on the pitch, but a merciless bully on the fields too.

“Dawson,” you greeted. “How are you?”

You ignored his laugh at your amicable tone. He turned to his left and peered at the closed office door.

“What are you seeing Slughorn for?”

“None of your business,” you responded, turning on your heel.

“Hold up,” he demanded and hastily caught up to you until he was by your side. “Are the rumours true? That you want to be an Auror?”

“I can neither confirm or deny them,” you said with a shrug and made a sharp left, almost throwing Dawson off your trail.

“That’s why you’ve gone to Slughorn! You’re getting him to sweet talk for you!”

You found yourself at a loss for words.

“The position’s going to Woodsworth, no question,” Dawson said, smirking when you tensed up at the name. The little twitch near your mouth gave it all away, your obvious tell. “Just saving you some time.”

Woodsworth, another Slytherin student, was your only competition for the job and that was a well-known fact. You were equally matched in academics and the Head Boy and Head Girl of your respective houses. But he was the Slytherin Quidditch captain and a renowned seeker whereas you were a mere spectator, often lost in a sea of a loud scarlet and gold. You couldn’t imagine handling Quidditch and your studies – impossible. Woodsworth, however, rose up to the occasion and balanced everything with enviable grace. His patronus, a magnificent dragon, had revealed itself first during a free period in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when you were given liberty to study anything you desired. It drew endless praise from your peers and was spectacular light show in the dark room. It took you another week to produce yours, and not as brilliantly as his, just a faint corporeal patronus. Dawson and Lucius seemed intent on never letting you live it down.

Begrudgingly, you knew. You knew Woodsworth would make the better Auror. Unlike his housemates, he mainly kept to himself. He was faultless, kind, and impossible to despise except for his unbridled ambition to climb higher. He just possessed a golden touch. But when it was announced the sole position of an Auror in half a decade was open, nothing would stop you from trying.

“We’ll see.”

Dawson’s laughter echoed as you trotted further down the hall.

“Pipedreams, (L/N), they’re called pipedreams!”


	4. borgin and burkes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius follows his father to an unsettling meeting with Mr. Borgin.

The next two months of summer after graduation disappeared in a blink of an eye. Spots of balmy weather dappled the country, saturating the beaches and shopping alleys with visitors. On this fine evening, Lucius and his father were cutting through Diagon Alley with an intention to visit Mr. Borgin, having just left an appointment at Gringotts. The crimson sky and the dipping sun ushered many home for dinner. The crowds thinned out behind him as he appraised his father, whose countenance was devoid of much emotion beyond a scowl. He was currently expressing disagreement with the Minister for Magic’s new proposal that involved a tax exemption for muggle-born families. 

But today wasn’t like any other summer day. Anxiety hung heavy in the air; many of his peers had been dreading this fated day since June, when owls would deliver letters of employment. Lucius, however, did not share an ounce of the same dread. After all, his familial connections to the Ministry and innumerable inheritance had served him well. There was little to fret over; he did not have to worry about positions of employment like his classmates when his future was well-paved.

Appeasing his father’s endless tirade and criticism of the Minister for Magic’s policies with words of agreement, he began to look other ways: to the zigzagging streets, the cobbled pathways, and the emptying stores. His eyes were drawn to a small arrangement outside a particular pub, just a few mere tables and seats pushed together by the gated entrance. He didn’t need to be within proximity to know who occupied the table when it was always your eyes that gave you away. The same inquisitive eyes, now illuminated by the gold of the sinking sun, that often bored into his, and were always cloudy with the ambiguity of your feelings towards him. One of your friends sympathetically rubbed your shoulder, leaning close to whisper words of comfort.

You appeared to Lucius a pathetic apparition of the Head Girl he used to know, who was always perched on the stone steps of the courtyard and speaking with unwavering confidence. Now, glassy red eyes looked downwards as you slowly nodded at something your friend had said. It was hard to draw away; it always piqued his interest how your eyes were a dead ringer for your grandfather’s. He’d seen portraits of him in the common room, taken decades ago when he was your age. If you saw them too, Lucius was sure you’d agree—you were your grandfather's spitting image.

The dispersing crowd hashed out much of your conversation, and he allocated most of his focus to his father lest he be chastised for being inattentive. All he heard was a cacophony of mangled dialogue.

“The audacity to make such a decision at a time like this, I say—” his father spoke hotly.

“—really, we thought—” the girl beside you consoled.

“—when Nobby Leach’s tenure is finished, we—” he continued.

“—the hospital wrote, you should—” she suggested.

“—Lucius,” his father’s voice cut through like ice, as if noticing his attention was being unfairly divided. “Your housemate Woodsworth is leaving in a fortnight for Auror training.”

“Is that so?” He responded, now making sense of what he'd just seen.

“The sole occupancy in five years.”

“Impressive.”

“I am personally satisfied,” his father added sharply.

“As am I, father.”

“Make yourself available next weekend,” Abraxas continued. “They will have us for dinner."

“Of course, father.”

Lucius retracted his gaze and followed the narrow pathway to Knockturn Alley. The bright, welcoming stores of Diagon Alley quickly transformed into darker, more sinister looking complexes that boasted roofs of jagged angles and uneven shapes. The stragglers hiding in the shadows could only intimidate an unwelcome visitor, but Lucius was familiar with this part of town. They immersed themselves back into the darkness at the sight of the Malfoy patriarch, knowing how heavily his surname weighed here.

His father was the first to enter Borgin and Burkes. At the chime, Mr. Borgin froze and hurriedly ushered his previous clients out with a harsh whisper.

“Go on, now,” demanded Abraxas, giving the hardwood floor a few hard taps with his cane before letting it rest against the door. _Thud, thud._ Lucius stayed back, letting the last of sun’s rays consume him before entering the darkness of Borgin and Burkes. His father hadn’t divulged much about today's appointment, but he knew the need to see Mr. Borgin was never a good sign.

The two hooded men quickly pulled their chests back, clearly leaving the transaction unfinished. Lucius caught a glimpse of their faces under their hoods: clawed, clammy and grey skin stretched by their wild and bulging eyes. They were gaunt below the robes, legs shuffling like twigs as they ran out the open door.

Lucius maintained his usual spot behind the counter. He was still, quietly appraising the numerous artifacts Mr. Borgin kept on display. If the conversation droned on too long, he would wander and read the little mottling placards by the artifacts. Abraxas approached Mr. Borgin and whispered in hushed tones, indulging tidbits of dark magic only he could offer. Lucius watched as Mr. Borgin retrieved a dusty box behind him and unclasped the locks, but his father’s figure concealed the object. All he could see was the glass cabinet behind Mr. Borgin that reflected his father’s visage. There were no words needed when his father’s face spoke for him—of sinister machinations and bloodlust. 

Lucius could barely make out the conversation from his position behind the two men, but his conscience told him he was better off not listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1) I had to deviate from canon last chapter with the directory involving 32 names and not 28. I'm going to have to deviate again with Nobby Leach's term and when he left office - I promise it'll contribute to the plot and eventual romance! I'm actually excited to personify him and Eugenia Jenkins. 
> 
> 2) I don't usually write many OCs but it was difficult here considering Lucius is 5 years older than James/Lily/Sirius and so forth. So, Woodsworth and Dawson, some coworkers and department heads will be named. If they're not super important, I won't give them a name (i.e generic "Head Boy" "Friend").
> 
> 3) I may be a sucker for slow burns. I have a turning point/Lucius chapter coming up in a few chapters! Been mulling that over at night. 
> 
> 4) Lucius is still 18 here, so I imagine he's still malleable in terms of personality...
> 
> Thank you for reading up to here and sticking with this slow burn/build. I appreciate it!


	5. minister for magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could the passing of the previous Minister for Magic indicate something more sinister?

If life was an ocean, then you’d long learned to sway with its unpredictable currents. You spent the next two years inside the white walls of St. Mungo’s Hospital, worlds away from the Auror Office at the Ministry. You were grateful to be able to keep in touch with old friends through letters and rambunctious dinner parties, evenings spent glasses of wine in and reminiscing about old times, and lose the less favourable acquaintances. You had sent Woodsworth your congratulations by owl a few days after it was announced he was to leave for training. Too early and you would’ve been over-compensating, and sending it too late would’ve given off the impression you were still bitter. You were always certain it’d be him. If he ran for the next Minister for Magic – bloody hell, you’d toss him your vote. Overall, detaching yourself from Ministry affairs proved itself a fortunate turn of events because through a façade of support, seeing Woodsworth’s inauguration would’ve been another shot to the heart.

Healing.

That’s what you needed and did daily. And your best effort you did give.

Flanked with highly-intelligent and kind healers, your backup plan began to precede your first. The charge healer of the fourth floor was Mr. Fawcett, a man of average height, a slightly rounder build, and a rosy face adorned with circular spectacles. He was as pleasant as a man who’d endured a strenuous career on the long-term ward could be. Today, with great urgency, he called the entire floor to the meeting room.

“The previous Minister for Magic has passed as of this morning,” he announced gravely when everyone had been seated. A wave of gasps chorused through the long room. While his failing health indicated there was little chance for recovery, no one dared utter about the possibility of death. It was unanimous that Nobby Leach’s tenure was a blessing to the hospital. His policies to increase funding and staffing led to a decrease in mortality as well as a reduction in employee burnout. His visits to the hospital were always welcome, with healers peeking from their units to applaud him and thank him personally.

The news of Mr. Leach’s admission to the fourth floor a year ago spread like wildfire over the wizarding world. Rumours flew about his health and if the decisions he’d made up until his sudden admission to St. Mungo’s were sound. Shock was equally abundant and in the heat of it all, quick judgement was passed to Eugenia Jenkins, the interim Minister for Magic, and whether she could handle the office like Mr. Leach had. It was all incredibly misogynistic, you thought; if she were a man, there would be no doubt that she was capable.

“We’ve yet to determine a cause of death, but due to its unnatural course, we will give our full efforts in a joint investigation with the Ministry of Magic,” he said.

You were personally quite fond of Mr. Leach and his policies, warmly recalling his appearance at Hogwarts for your class graduation. He even congratulated you when you arrived to greet him at the entrance doors. But tarnishing that memory was Lucius’s sneer – silent but so loud – across the Great Hall when Headmaster Dippet proudly announced Mr. Leach’s appearance. Surely, Mr. Leach’s status as a muggle-born holding the highest position of power didn’t mesh well with his contrarian views. You eyed him as he cozied up to the Parkinson girl who stifled her laughter at a comment he whispered into her ear, his blue eyes twinkling in amusement. The fury you felt at his disrespect was only subdued by the Head Boy, as attentive as he was, joking how his father would hear about this. Still, watching his silent facial expressions and exaggerated mannerisms of Mr. Leach whenever Headmaster Dippet complimented his achievements was infuriating.

“Eugenia Jenkins will be officially inaugurated tomorrow,” Mr. Fawcett continued. “I will be meeting with her within the week to gauge her expectations of how St. Mungo’s will be run.”

The room nodded silently. Other matters were discussed but the passing of Mr. Leach weighed the room down, with hardly any hands raised in the air or any provision of insightful comments like most meetings had. After Mr. Fawcett’s dismissal, some healers stayed to embrace their coworkers who were still wiping away their tears at the news. You lingered as well for a few more moments to let the news sink in. The news of Mr. Leach’s passing and certain other events at the hospital left an uneasy feeling in your body, like it was a foreshadowing of worse to come. You took a sip of water and placed a hand to your warm face. You were probably just catastrophizing.

“Ready to go?” Abbott, a co-worker of yours, asked.

Ignoring the odd sensation, you nodded and followed her to oversee the new admissions.

* * *

The news of Nobby Leach’s passing rippled faster through the world than his admission had. The Daily Prophet toppled its own daily sales record in the first hour the newspaper was available the next morning. Many of its editors theorized preposterous ways that Mr. Leach could’ve passed, from being poisoned by the political opposition to being murdered in his own hospital unit, which St. Mungo’s heatedly refuted. An up-and-coming editor, Rita Skeeter, proposed the outrageous idea in her allotted column on the first page that Mr. Leach had staged his own death under duress to seek asylum in the muggle world. If one hadn’t known better, then Ms. Skeeter’s proposition could’ve been quite convincing.

The chatter of the day dwindled by nightfall when all talks about Nobby Leach had been tried and exhausted. The last embers of the candles flickering in the Malfoy Manor were the only source of light from what Lucius could see from his position by the fireplace. Normally, the house elf would keep them lit until all the Malfoys had retired to slumber, but his father had called on him for urgent business tonight. It would be past midnight when they returned, so let them burn, he’d ordered.

Lucius had spent most of his morning trying to gauge his father’s sentiments about Mr. Leach’s passing. He tactfully observed him at breakfast, but he did not appear overly jubilant as Lucius had predicted. Lucius himself did not support Mr. Leach’s policies and desired nothing more than a proper Minister – one that didn’t integrate muggles as much as Mr. Leach had. And besides, what did a muggle-born Minister for _Magic_ know about his world? But his hatred seemed pathetically childish when compared to his father’s. So, it surprised him that Abraxas had only crumpled the newspaper as he stared out at the blooming rose garden, muttering something about a greater good under his breath. Shortly afterwards, he departed the manor to witness Eugenia Jenkins’ inauguration at the Ministry.

Lucius heard the distant thuds of his father’s cane down the dark hallway, indicating it was time to leave. The candles swayed as his father trotted down the length of the manor.

“Now, Lucius,” his father spoke, fastening the last buttons of his long topcoat. “You understand that this a dear old friend of mine? To whom I am greatly indebted?”

“Yes, father,” he responded, wondering if this was the friend responsible for his long stretches of absence from the manor.

“When there a comes a time I cannot fulfill my obligations to him,” Abraxas continued as a shadow from the window streaked his face, giving him a greater appearance of austerity. “Whether it be from age or death, I have promised you, Lucius, as my successor.”

The urgency and tone his father spoke in tonight greatly contrasted that of his casual announcement one morning that he’d retired as a Hogwarts Governor and named Lucius his immediate replacement on the board. That felt like a pleasant swim, but this was blind plunge into a cold lake.

“And what obligations,” he treaded cautiously, “am I to fulfill here, father?”

“Don’t _question_ , Lucius,” Abraxas snapped, eyes narrowing quickly, “and especially, do not question tonight if you value your own life.”

“My apologies,” Lucius responded as the last candle fell to the darkness.

“Do as asked,” Abraxas warned. “Don’t besmirch the Malfoy name.”

Lucius nodded, the death of Nobby Leach being the furthest of his concerns now.

“Come along, now,” his father demanded, extending an arm towards him.

And with that, the handsome comforts of manor were replaced by the biting winds in a yard on the outskirts of Wiltshire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split this into 2 chapters because of length, the latter should be up tomorrow if not the next day. Apologies about lateness, just completed a board exam & moved 4 hours from home!


	6. interdepartmental memos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter with an old acquaintance leads to a proposition you just can’t refuse.

The grief from Mr. Leach’s passing persisted like the aftershocks of an earthquake. You’d even heard that the Ministry had taken to hurricanes, thunderstorms, and torrential downpours as their perpetual template choice for the weather outside. Despite this, Eugenia Jenkins’s position as the official Minster for Magic seemed to alleviate some of that pain; her smart and alacritous decisions were met overwhelming approval. It didn’t seem to be long until life would return to its baseline normalcy.

Softly humming as you picked up a chart on the fourth floor, you starting skimming through today’s lot of admissions.

“Good morning, (L/N),” your co-worker greeted cheerily, pining back her blonde hair with a clip.

“Good morning, Abbott,” you responded.

“When you’re done with this morning’s admissions, Mr. Fawcett would like to see you in his office,” she said casually.

You looked up.

“Regarding?”

“Nothing bad!” She smiled sweetly, dissipating any tension when she saw your widening eyes. She pulled a quill from behind her ear and began making notes in the margins. “Just something he needs your help on.”

“It’s us who should be asking for help,” you said with a soft laugh, unfurling your list of admissions that narrowly missed the floor by a few inches. “Reckon this list just gets longer every day, Abbott?”

She nodded with a grimace.

The last month had been nothing but an overflow of transfers and admissions to the fourth floor. What should've been short-term stays now required long-term care. You’d chalked it up to the terrifying disease that’d been propagating through the country. It caused madness, delirium, screaming, repeated crying to be repented for past sins, and bone crushing grasps on your body. You couldn’t recall a night you hadn’t spent face to face with wild, bloodshot eyes in the wards. The best you, Abbott, Wood, and the other healers could do was to keep each other company in the grimness of it all, confiding in each other the terrible nightmares stemming from dark nights in the wards, and trudge onwards together with your weary limbs and heavy eyes.

There had been no identified intent or origin, and thus, no cure. The hospital and the Ministry of Magic both shied away from informing the public due to the fear of unnecessary stress on their citizens. The Ministry was burdened with the responsibility of explaining it to mainly muggle families. So, to put an end to this, your mornings were spent rounding patients and your nights were taken by perfecting antidotes. You’d been lauded on your precise touch and delicate craft, but you couldn’t imagine it’d ever be enough for this.

In the afternoon, when all the potions in your cart had been administered to your patients, you excused yourself to tend to the request of Mr. Fawcett. As the head of the department, you weren’t sure why he had requested your sole presence in his office. Sure, Abbott had clarified it was nothing serious, but that didn’t quell your thudding heart. Your mind combed through all the healing spells and antidotes you’d given in the past months for errors, inaccuracies, overlooked details – anything. But the search was fruitless, and you found yourself in worse condition as you entered the office.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted the secretary, a rather uninterested looking witch who found her cuticles more important than you. “(F/N) (L/N), for Mr. Fawcett, please.”

“ _H_ e iz in a meeting with _ze_ Ministry,” she scowled. “Do you _h_ ave a _rendez-vous_?”

“No,” you responded earnestly. “I was just told he wished to see me.”

She opened her mouth as to chide you.

“No, it’s quite alright, Esme, send her in,” a familiar voice beckoned from the ajar door.

The secretary pointed to the door with her quill. You walked towards it and gingerly pushed it open. To your surprise, it wasn’t just Mr. Fawcett, but he was accompanied by the Minister for Magic – in the flesh – and an intimidating figure to her right.

Breathless, you began, “Minister—,”

“—Eugenia is fine,” she interrupted with a smile. You reached out to meet her handshake, your face flushing with admiration.

“(F/N), (L/N),” you responded, eagerly matching the strong grip of her hand.

Eugenia Jenkins stood high in a royal blue suit with a matching cloak, held together by gold clasps and boasting a gold finish at the ends, that swathed her frame down to her ankles. Her curled brown hair was tucked elegantly behind her ears, accenting her sharp hazel eyes and rosy lips. She was so poised, so _regal_ , and gave a strong aura of confidence as if becoming the youngest Minister for Magic was something she’d long-rehearsed for.

“William Whiteside, the head of DMAC,” the stoic man standing right of Eugenia greeted as he shook your hand. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. We’re located on the third floor at the Ministry.”

“Anyway, as we were saying, the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee finds themselves unable to satisfactorily explain these incidents any further,” Mr. Fawcett said, redirecting the conversation. “Say, Bill, what was the latest excuse you proposed?

“We’ve proposed lead contamination in the drinking water in Exford, but due to its rather poor explanation by one of our employees,” Mr. Whiteside’s expression immediately tensed, eyes darting to Eugenia to gauge her response, “the muggle government is now conducting a full inspection of their water pipes. The muggle Prime Minister is understandably upset at this pointless waste of resources, and the muggle community is in protest over unsafe drinking water and pursuing legal action against the government. The muggle Prime Minister is tanking in his popularity polls, and we cannot deny fault.”

“We’ve greatly underestimated the severity of this curse,” Eugenia stated, lightly shaking her head. “This task has now been passed to the Office of Misinformation who will liaise directly with the muggle Prime Minister first before making such injudicious annoucements, won’t they, William?”

Mr. Whiteside only nodded, face still looking unpleasantly riled with a smidge of disappointment from direct criticism from Eugenia.

“We need more efficient solutions to this disaster,” Mr. Fawcett added. “We’ve secured some units on the second floor for emergency use for the time being. But at this rate, we’ll be above capacity on not just our floor, but the entire hospital.”

“And the Office of Misinformation has greater concerns to tend to,” Eugenia sighed, crossing her arms. “We’ll want to nip the problem before it manifests further.”

“We need an antidote, with a curative intent,” Mr. Whiteside affirmed. “DMAC will take responsibility for ensuring its success, Eugenia.”

“Ah, (L/N), in regards to that,” Mr. Fawcett redirected his gaze to you, “Mr. Whiteside has requested our best for the task.”

“Come again?” You asked, in slight puzzlement from the fast-paced conservation. 

“The Ministry would like your assistance in developing an antidote for this disease,” he explained.

“We have greater resources at your disposal available at the Ministry,” Mr. Whiteside added. “And a team with a solid foundation in dealing with magical catastrophes.”

“Usually, we like to give a few weeks’ notice, but as you are aware, the severity of the situation has eclipsed the need for timely transfers,” Mr. Fawcett continued. “Now, Abbott and Wood will oversee this afternoon’s admissions, so if you could please accompany the Minister for Magic and the Head of the Department back to the Ministry.”

“Certainly, Mr. Fawcett,” you said, knowing you had little say in the matter. “Thank you.”

“And Frank,” Eugenia said in front of the fireplace. “Let’s reconvene in a week’s time to discuss the circumstances surrounding Mr. Leach’s passing.”

“Of course, Eugenia,” he responded, peering out the door to Esme. "My secretary will make a note of that."

And with that, you unbuttoned the green robes you'd donned for the better part of two years. You followed Eugenia and Mr. Whiteside to the fireplace and disappeared with them in a flash of green. When the whirling sensation ceased, you found yourself in the most breath-taking building. With its magnificent arched ceilings, royal blue and dotted with specks of gold, it was a spectacular sight. The sheer amount of people that circled around the golden sculptures and fountains gave it an impression of a palace constructed within a city. But as marvellous as it was, it was a building that opened flesh wounds of abandoned hopes and dreams. You could only look upwards to the towering balconies like they were the upper echelons of the Ministry you once so feverishly desired to climb.

You trailed behind the Eugenia and Mr. Whiteside as they talked rapidly about work affairs. Eugenia soon excused herself and left you and Mr. Whiteside in the lift.

“Good afternoon, Aldridge,” Mr. Whiteside greeted, hands firmly crossed behind his back and looking upright, barely glancing at the short and stout man who’d just boarded the lift. “How goes the Wizengamot?”

You appraised the shorter man, wondering if you'd seen him somewhere before.

“Splendid!” he responded with vigour from behind the towering stack of papers that covered his face. “We are in recess the last week of July, meaning some much-needed rest for all of us.”

You rode the rest of the way up in silence.

“Third floor,” Mr. Whiteside stated in a monotone voice that contrasted the one of Mr. Fawcett greatly. “Your name will be on the door. Holden will give you a tour and explain your duties.”

“Thank you,” you responded and stepped out of the elevator.

The halls were much wider than you were used to, with lavender planes instead of trolleys whizzing in and out of the lifts. Dapper individuals chatting leisurely replaced the frenzy of green robes rushing around the units, where seconds could mean the difference between life and death. Perhaps this was what bureaucracy was like, so comfortable and plush? You couldn’t help but let the dangerous temptation of _what-if_ sink back into your mind and let it pull at your heart. Was this what your life could’ve been? If you’d tried harder? If you’d gotten a position at the Ministry? What if you spent the last two years here instead of at the hospital? Lost in your musings, you hadn’t noticed an individual hastily rounding the blind corner. You tumbled backwards as he collided into you.

“Watch where you’re—” a deep voice began to chide.

Indignation crossed your face. How could you be blamed for the collision? You looked up to a mop of curly brown hair and equally brown eyes. With his shorter and brawnier build, there was no mistaking who this was, even if the last time you’d seen him was outside Horace Slughorn’s office more than two years ago.

“Dawson?” You asked in surprise, demeanour immediately softening.

It took a few moments for him to reciprocate. “(L/N)?”

He extended a hand to help you up, highly uncharacteristic for a man who as you knew him, didn't possess a hint of chivalry.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

“I work here now—” you stammered, “—now being, today, and yourself?”

“Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee,” he answered abashedly, looking a little pink in the cheeks.

“Oh,” you sympathized, recalling what you’d heard in Mr. Fawcett’s office. “I’m sorry to hear about the lead pipe incident.”

“Even _you’ve_ heard?” Dawson exclaimed, the pink that precipitated in his cheeks now spreading and darkening across his entire visage and down his neck. “Whiteside is furious with me. How was I supposed to know lead pipes were such a big issue for muggles?”

“Well, isn’t the Office of Misinformation handling it now?”

“For now,” he said. “But when the job is transferred back to me, I’ll be in trouble.”

Dawson looked left and right before looking back at you.

“Look, can you help me?” He pleaded, hands coming out to grasp your shoulders. “If you could assist me in writing my report for Whiteside, I’d be indebted to you, I mean it.”

You found yourself gobsmacked for the umpteenth time today. Hours ago, you’d found yourself the subject of the oddest job transfer you'd known — was it even considered an interdepartmental transfer? And if so, how often did these kinds of things happen? Then, you found yourself standing on the soil that nourished your old dreams, wondering if you’d wasted two perfectly good years of your life. And now, Dawson, who was a constant reason for misery in your school days, was figuratively on his knees, kissing the floor and begging to be in your debt.

However, the idea of having someone like Dawson indebted to you, while peculiar, was too tempting to pass up. When starting at the bottom rungs of the ladder at the Ministry, there may eventually be a few favours you’d need to succeed.

“And I can request anything in return?” you asked slowly, eyeing Dawson with suspicion.

“Anything, and a few Butterbeers when I’m in Whiteside’s good graces again,” he promised as he ran off. He gestured to a speeding paper plane. “Just look for my memo!”


	7. pensieves and hatstalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five minutes the Sorting Hat took with you had to mean something, Lucius once thought under the willow tree.

You yawned as opened your curtains, inviting the warm July sun to spill into your bedroom. You had burned the midnight oil the past few nights finishing up a report that was completely unrelated to your field of work. Despite the time it took, it was quite enjoyable engrossing yourself in muggle accidents and devising appropriate and more importantly, believable excuses that didn’t involve tanking the muggle Prime Minister’s popularity. This almost took precedence to ensuring you were integrating well into the DMAC and the team you were working with. It was a much more technical job, sitting in a meeting room in the morning and shuffling to the laboratory in the afternoon. Your co-worker, Holden, was kind and gave you an appropriate tour of the Ministry and all its ten floors. She’d even taken you down the stairs to the Wizengamot, which both of you joked to hope to never find yourself in. Dawson, known for cutting edges and his mischievous streak, was even better in showing you the in-and-outs of the Ministry.

Wiping the sleep out of your eyes, you slipped into the kitchen for coffee.

As the golden liquid brewed, an owl fluttered down to your windowsill. It wobbled slightly from the weight of the two packages and letters strapped to its leg. You opened the window and retrieved it, not forgetting to give your messenger a treat before it flew off again.

You opened the first letter, running your fingers over the familiar ridges of the crimson stamp. It was addressed from Headmaster Dippet. A rush of nostalgia overcame you, like you’d just received a supply list for the upcoming school year. Every end of summer was full of wonderfully warm memories: roaming Diagon Alley with your grandfather, ticking off every book and ingredient off your list like it was some kind of scavenger hunt, getting measured for new robes after outgrowing your old ones, and ending the trip with gelato at Fortescue’s.

Instead, the stiff and proper correspondence reminded you those days were long gone. In your hands was an invitation for a board meeting to be held before the new school year. Your input would be valuable when presented in front of the Board of Governors given your achievements, it read. You retrieved a quill from beside the window and quickly signed off on it, promising your attendance at Hogwarts in a fortnight.

The second letter, the colour of peonies, was strapped to two packages. You smiled when you saw the penmanship.

> (F/N),
> 
> Happy birthday, dear. This is from your grandpa and me. He kept this for you.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Grandma

You set the letter down and began to untie the twill holding the brown parchment together. The first package was full of various homemade sweets. The second was oddly shaped, cylindrical like a tube, and the layers of twisted wrapping paper seemed to serve for protective purposes rather than for aesthetic ones. You tore the tape holding it together to confirm your suspicions of what it was – a small vial. The glass was beautifully preserved, pristine with no marks or prints marring its surface. You inspected the vial, carefully holding it length-wise between your thumb and forefinger to the sunlight. The mist swirling inside was enchanting and completely encapsulated your interests. Where had you seen one of these before?

You closed your eyes, letting your memory wander back in time. It was a wintry December sometime in your fifth year. You were in Headmaster Dippet’s office with some other prefects. When the Headmaster turned away momentarily, you couldn’t resist the urge to peek at the wondrous paintings and treasures in the grand room. To the right of you was a majestic wooden cabinet circling a shallow stone basin. Inside the cabinet sat rows and rows of labelled glass vials, each with the same mist swirling inside.

It then came to you.

It belonged in a Pensieve.

* * *

“Good morning,” you said, placing a thick roll of parchment in Dawson’s office which was a small shared room tucked in the corner of the third floor. “All ten feet. Try using what muggles call _delirium_ or _substance_ _withdrawal_ when the job is transferred back to you.”

“Thank you,” Dawson said, exhaling in relief. “You’re absolutely brilliant.”

You near flinched, still not accustomed to compliments from Dawson. You’d wondered where the burly boy who’d hurl nothing but insults had gone. Perhaps his job at the Ministry was humbling him.

“Anyway,” you said quickly. “I’ve decided what I need in return.”

“Whatever you desire, (L/N).”

You leaned in close to him.

“The last week of July, the Wizengamot is adjourned—” you whispered the rest in Dawson’s ear, rehashing what you’d heard the man named Aldridge say in the elevator. You kept hushed tones while peering out the door, unsure if the other Ministry workers could hear. But all the other third floor workers were gaily conversing over their morning coffee, unaware of the severity of the task you were demanding of their underling. The young man blanched when you finished your sentence, “—guard the door.”

“I can’t do that,” he said after a few beats.

“Your uncle works in the Wizengamot Administration office,” you stated, having pieced together just yesterday where the man in the elevator was from. “You can."

“That doesn’t make it easier for me,” he countered. “There are enchantments and locks keeping it closed.”

“You said anything, Dawson,” you leaned in again, peering at him.

“But –”

Your fingers tapping the report accented each syllable you spoke, “Quid. Pro. Quo.”

Dawson looked ghastly at your veiled threat to take back the report. Your insistence he carry out his promise was intimidating. And now, the words from uttered by one of his best mates years ago was all regrettably making sense now.

* * *

The conversation had been about hatstalls. It was May sometime in their fifth year, some humid spring day. It came to light after their transfiguration professor, Professor McGonagall, admitted she herself had been a hatstall to a passing colleague in the classroom. But the companion Dawson was seated with under the shade of a willow tree needed not worry about that; descending from a long line of Slytherins would ensure any hatstall would be sorted rightly in favour of their family history.

“A prime example,” Lucius stated, cocking his head to a group of Gryffindors walking across the yard, “of being sorted into the wrong house.”

“Sure,” Dawson responded lazily, knowing exactly who Lucius had pinpointed despite the crowd around you. He wasn’t sure if Lucius just enjoyed singling you out or rather, held an odd fascination for you, but he didn’t care enough to ask. “Hufflepuff.”

“Hufflepuff?” Lucius laughed, as if Dawson had cracked a joke. “Think clearly, Dawson.”

While neither Lucius and Dawson had known you during the Sorting Ceremony, your sorting was memorable indeed. It was quiet five-minute deliberation, the longest of them all, and the lengthy process greatly dulled the excitement of the night. You sat frozen, looking nervous and fidgety in the silence that suddenly overcame the room. He had to imagine your anxiety was worsened tenfold by everyone’s eyes on you, wondering why your sorting was stalling the procession.

“Ravenclaw, then,” he responded confidently, exhausting the only other option.

Lucius looked amused and alight with some knowledge that only he himself knew, as if he was treating Dawson to some well-guarded secret.

Dawson raised an eyebrow.

“You’re mad, mate.”

“Just consider it a warning, Dawson,” Lucius said, breaking the silence with a smirk," to never get yourself into any sticky situations.”

* * *

The next few weeks were the worst of Dawson’s life. He spent most of his time ruminating on Lucius’s warning, wishing he’d heeded it. He had to admit, it made complete sense what Lucius had said. Apprehending you outside of Slughorn’s office in your last year was not a simple case of you sucking up, but rather a strategy of yours that was quite ambitious and clever. Your propensity for climbing higher and breaking glass ceilings in not only school, but in your career as well, should've been another warning. And the curious, borderline mischievous glance you gave him in the hallway when he'd promised you anything in return should’ve hammered the point home.

What a sticky situation this was. 

“You’re mental, (L/N), absolutely mental, I tell you!” Dawson stammered as he followed you down the staircase after lunch.

He’d barely eaten or drank last week when he invited his uncle for whiskey, intending to pry for the spells that would open the Wizengamot doors, knowing the old man would reveal them in his drunken stupor. He’d barely eaten this morning as he entered his uncle’s office under the guise of friendly conversation, but all with the purpose of nicking the keys to the Wizengamot as it lay in a small drawer. And he’d barely eaten this afternoon knowing what he was about to do for you.

That clack of your shoes and the thuds from Dawson’s boots ricocheted off the cold stone walls. His pleads echoed as you walked further and further. You ignored him in your own vested interest.

“You can still change your mind!” he yelled as he tried to grasp your arm to stop you. “We could get fired then tried in the very same court for this!”

“When did you become such a stickler for rules, Dawson?” you countered, refusing to budge with a resolution so clear and firm. “Last I remember, you were beating bludgers at the opposing team after the Quidditch match had already ended. That’s why they called your uncle Aldridge in, no?”

With the smoky vial clutched in your hands, you had long foregone formalities and a sense of what was proper. It might’ve been proper to ask permission from the administration. It might’ve been proper to ask Headmaster Dippet next week. It might’ve been proper to just avoid your curiosity altogether and live on like you already had been. But you were afraid of no’s and never knowing. And if your grandfather had sent this, surely, there was something urgent that needed to be addressed. Was there something he wanted you to see?

Dawson reluctantly unlocked the heavy door with his recent learnings. It closed with a loud thud behind you, and a second thud indicated Dawson had slumped against it and was now on the lookout as promised. You walked into the circular room of the Wizengamot. It was still a phenomenal sight even after seeing it once before. The air was thick with layers of layers of history and trials of the worst crimes known to wizard-kind. You dashed past the chair in the middle of the circle, boasting intimidating shackles to keep criminals in plain view of spectators and officials. You climbed the stairs to where the Warlock and leaders sat and ran to the back.

There the Pensieve stood. You walked to it immediately as if in a trance. In the basin, you could see your own rippling reflection, so ravenous for knowledge of your grandfather’s memories. With shaky hands, you popped off the stopper and tilted the flask in. You waited with bated breath as the vapour streamed downwards in immaculate swirls and into the vessel. The mist was dangerously alluring and beckoned you in like a siren song. You obeyed, quickly sinking in and diving deeper and deeper into the past.


End file.
